It's Christmas Day. After our sleepover and cosy evening, I'm trying to restore a little order. Dinner was, as always, a feast of contrasts—delicious dishes alongside a few less appealing ones. It was an authentic dining experience: sweet, bitter, sour, tangy, and salty. I loved the cosy evening with travel stories, gifts, and games, followed by the messy morning, but most of all, I enjoyed the relaxed and easygoing atmosphere.
Our children, now parents, discuss what time to leave, coordinating it with the little one's nap schedule. They need the nap just as much as she does. Thankfully, they'll get it. Meanwhile, I step into the role of facilitator. I clear away the clutter from the kitchen counter and table, creating a bit of calm for others. The dishwasher hums in the background, ready to be emptied. Wrapping paper and packaging from the gifts pile up on the counter, waiting to be sorted and organized.
But I keep getting distracted. I walk to the dishwasher with a cup, set it down, and someone asks for help with the coffee machine. Together, we clean the coffee drawer and chat about something—I can't even remember what. I return the drawer, and we make a cup of coffee. Then, someone needs batteries. Something has spilt—where's the paper towel?
And then I sit down. In front of me is a little box filled with collected scraps and cardboard from a beer pack, beautifully cut and printed in black, red, and white. Scissors, glue, a pen, and markers are before me. My granddaughter joins in. She spreads the glue with her little hands. "Yes, just like that! Press it down firmly!" Together, we make a card for Grandma from the other side of the family.
My goal when I worked at Culgi was still the same: I wanted to connect people. Back then, it helped to work among nerds who needed a little social lubrication in their interactions. But now, things are different. I spend most of my time at home, and social media has profoundly changed us. Families get into arguments, stuck in their separate bubbles. These divisions drive people further apart, and we need to push back. And what can we do?
So, I keep doing what I've always liked: making collages. I tell myself, "Just do it. Maybe it sets a good example." My granddaughter joins me. I make a few collages and write greetings and names on them. After discussing it, we decided these will make good Christmas cards for the families they'll visit later today. They're better than the store-bought cards with their polished, calculated texts.
I'm grateful my children help me feel comfortable being vulnerable. Of course, these cards look like my two-and-a-half-year-old granddaughter could make them —precisely because she helped make them! They don't have to be "art" with a capital A. And that's the message I wanted to share with the extended family—that we are all vulnerable and imperfect, and that's okay.
Yesterday, my husband spontaneously composed a piece on the piano for a sweet elderly neighbour who came by to deliver a Christmas card. It's another way of strengthening personal connections.
And, of course, we, as grandparents, enjoy doing these things. We already love glueing and cutting or composing music. But does that make it any less meaningful? Is our intention any less valuable because it's something we enjoy?
Still, I noticed how overwhelmed I felt today by the chaos—the clutter, the conversations, the constant interruptions. As much as I love this messy togetherness, I needed something to ground me. And that's why I focused so profoundly on the collages. Sitting down with that little girl, glue and scissors in hand, gave me peace amidst the noisy togetherness. It was a way to regain my balance, to create something small but meaningful in the middle of the chaos.
I also keep thinking about what distracted me today. Was it all the little interruptions—the dishwasher, the coffee machine, the clutter, the spilt drink? Or was it something else? Perhaps none of it was a distraction at all. Maybe it was all part of the real purpose of today: being present, creating small moments of connection, and embracing the messy, imperfect reality of family life.
Because, in the end, that's what this Christmas gathering was really about. It wasn't about perfectly planned meals, polished homes, brilliant speeches, or beautifully crafted Christmas cards. It was about showing up—vulnerable, imperfect, and human—and finding joy in coming together.
Well, I was there, as husband...I found the gathering very warm and enjoyfull, but also ... I needed the piano, and do some free-style composing, to find myself in the noise and chaos. I made a musical assembly so to say...a collage of sweet sour bitter salty...but then with notes.